


Swaying, to Music

by tehta



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Conflicting Artistic Sensibilities, Gen, Spiky Armour, Subtle Guile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:32:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehta/pseuds/tehta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor is not always the easiest person to talk to, not even for a powerful Vala like Melkor. Luckily, one of the Fëanorions has better taste in conversation.</p><p>As a result, Melkor gets to indulge in two of his favourite pastimes: stirring up trouble, and discussing his creative process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swaying, to Music

"Good mingling, Feanaro. Did you know that your bro--"

SLAM.

Melkor stared at the door’s glossy surface, and at the subtle, abstract patterns carved into it, as he strove to control his temper. The temptation to rearrange the door -- indeed, the whole house -- into something new and pleasing, like a pile of smoking rubble, was nearly overwhelming. Unfortunately, such an action was unlikely to sway anyone to his side.

"Well, I did not want to talk to you, either!" he shouted instead, before stalking away.

Why was that spawn of Eru answering his own door, anyway? A servant would certainly have let Melkor in, and gladly. He had constructed his body with the greatest care. Even that dandy Mairon, who tended to get so fussy about appearances, had agreed that it was both imposing and disarmingly Child-like, and just right for influencing lesser beings.

But -- Oh! Perhaps he did not even need to enter the house, after all; perhaps he could try sowing dissent in the garden, instead. Just a few steps away, atop a woodpile, sat one of Feanaro's many... creations? Minions? No, no, sons, that was the word. And this son did not even look particularly busy: he was not making anything, just scribbling on some sort of tablet.

Melkor strode over.

"Harrumph," he cleared his throat.

The Fëanorion did not spare him a single glance. He seemed far too focused on... counting on his fingers? Was he dimwitted? Ah well, all the better. Easier to sway.

"HARRUMPH," Melkor repeated.

This time, the Fëanorion's rather confused gaze flickered towards him, if only momentarily. "Oh, hello," he said. "The house is, er, over there."

The vague pointing gesture that accompanied this comment seemed at least a quarter-turn off, and was followed by an immediate return to the counting and scribbling. Such rudeness could not be tolerated! Melkor drew himself up, expanding both in height and width. As an afterthought, he added a few spikes to his shoulder-pads. Mairon swore by spiked armour.

It worked! The Fëanorion looked up, at last. "Do you mind?" he asked. "You are blocking the light, and I really need to get this tune down before it escapes me."

"Ah! You are composing!" Well, that explained the scribbling.

“Indeed.” The Fëanorion’s smile was tight and insincere. “I am composing. Or, at least, attempting to. So, if you will excuse me…”

He twisted away a little, moving his tablet out of Melkor’s shadow and revealing a mess of unfamiliar symbols. The things Eru’s ridiculous Children came up with! Still, Melkor decided to be politic, and show some interest. Such condescension would surely help with the swaying.

“What is your song supposed to do, then?” he asked.

“Right now, it is supposed to get itself written.”

“Yes, but what is its intended purpose, its effect? Once you complete it, I mean? Does it…” What did these lesser creatures care about, again? “Does it offer protection or concealment? Or is it, er, some sort of adornment? Something to make you look bigger? Or a mating call, perhaps: are you trying to--”

“AUGH!” The Fëanorion tossed the tablet down by his feet. “It WAS supposed to evoke the peaceful mood of this bewitching hour.”

“That does not sound very useful.”

“No?” His scowl was surprisingly fiercely for such a small and feeble creature. “You do not find art useful?”

“Art! I see. Someone explained it to me, once. Your… mother, in fact. She said that Art is why she makes all those... statues.” Such odd things, which hardly even moved, and would be of no use at all as servants. “She does have a reason for making them, though, even if she is unaware of it: when she shows them to people, they are impressed. You could do the same with your song. If it is impressive, that is.”

“I did not intend to produce a showy, public piece. I was planning to share this song mainly with my brothers.” He glanced down at the broken tablet. “I thought maybe we could play it together, of an evening.”

Finally, some common ground! Melkor was determined to make use of it. “I used to sing with my brother, too.”

“Yes, Aulë told us about that. Apparently you would not stop improvising."

“That is... quite true. Did he tell you why?”

“No. He’s not very interested in abstract causes, is he? He spoke mostly about the practical effects, such as the loss of harmony.”

How like that tiresome, narrow-minded reactionary to complain about something so irrelevant. This was exactly why his work was doomed to be nothing more than a derivative shadow of Eru’s creations. And why he would never understand Melkor’s grand plans, or, indeed, Melkor himself. 

But perhaps this Fëanorion would. He had been trying to create something of his very own, after all, in his small way. “In that case,” said Melkor, “you must permit me to explain myself. I will begin by asking you something. Are you gifted at music?”

“Yes.”

“More gifted than most?”

“Yes.”

“More gifted than your brothers?”

“Yes… And they would be the first to admit it. But I do not see what--”

“Well, then, surely you must understand how it feels to be surrounded by mediocrity.”

“Mediocrity?” An ugly scowl marred the Fëanorion’s plain Childish features even further. “Are you calling my brothers--”

“I am sure they have their own skills and portfolios. As do my own… peers,” said Melkor, almost choking on that last, inaccurate word. Typical--even thinking about those killjoys could ruin every activity, even something as fun as lying. “But that is not relevant here. We are talking about Music, the original instrument of Creation. Something so important, so powerful, is worth doing well. Do you not agree?”

The Fëanorion sighed. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Oh, but it felt satisfying to be able to discuss the Song at last, even with a lesser intellect! Mairon and Gothmog did have their uses, but diverting conversation was definitely not among them. “So, anyway,” Melkor continued, “there I was, in the middle of this choir, which was attempting to put together something quite novel. Or so I thought. But everyone else was being so… conformist. As if there existed only one right, Eru-approved, style of music; only one, Eru-approved, way to create.”

He glanced down at his listener, who gave a grudging nod before saying, “Very well, yes, I am starting to see your point. True creativity requires diversity, and a willingness to experiment. Besides, I have always felt that Eru--”

“Well, if you understand all that, surely you must also understand that I could not help myself. Because, really, is there anything more motivating than being subjected to dull, inferior work, and knowing that one can do so much better?”

“Actually, I have always found that--”

“Do try to imagine it! Just the parody possibilities alone…” Melkor grinned in what he hoped was an encouraging way.

But no, damn these tricky facial expressions! He must have shown too many sharp teeth, yet again. Instead of continuing to nod in agreement, the Fëanorian glanced away and scrunched up his entire countenance, the way the Children tended to do when encountering sulphurous smells.

“Parody...” he said at last. “Are you in earnest? I mean, I know that everyone's got their own creative process, and I do remember enjoying throwing together a pastiche or two, back when I was fifty, but I would have thought that one of the Valar-- I mean, isn’t parody a little… derivative?”

“Derivative?” Melkor felt a strong urge to let his physical form develop as it would, spikes, sharp teeth, and all. Only his strong will permitted him to suppress it; that, and the growing, depressing awareness that the Fëanorion, for all his musical pretensions, was just as ignorant as all the others. “What is your own lofty creative process, then?”

“My own process should be quite evident to you, since you have just interrupted it. I tend to draw inspiration from my own life.”

“Your life.” Melkor glanced around the garden, letting his gaze linger on the squalid woodpile, on several haphazardly-planted trees, and on a distant hill, now aglow with silvery light in the dullest, most mundane way possible. “Well, I can certainly see how that might inspire true originality.”

“I did not mean my immediate surroundings.” The Fëanorion sounded quite snappish. “I was referring more to my response to all I encounter; to my own experience.”

“Which is, no doubt, quite different from the experience of every other member of your race living in this fascinating land."

The Fëanorion started as if he had been stung, and stared at Melkor in silent outrage. "Your cheap mockery shocks me,” he eventually said. “Even if it is exactly what I should have expected, from a self-admitted parodist.”

The words were clearly intended as an insult and a rebuff. And yet, hidden beyond all this impudence, Melkor perceived something quite different and more promising: a spark of understanding, or even of agreement. And what are sparks for, if not to be fanned into flames? So, this Child craved novel experiences. Perhaps he could be convinced to search for them, or even to bring them about.

"Actually," Melkor said, “I was being quite sincere. You are far from a typical member of your race; you may yet live an extraordinary life, full of incident, and inspiring far beyond your current hopes. After all, your father is such an unusual creature, capable of the most remarkable, unprecedented deeds--if only he can resist the oppressive conformity of his dreary brothers and their allies.”

He paused there, to give his words time to do their work. He could feel the spikes on his armour receding; they were quite unnecessary, now that he had chosen such a subtle, guileful approach.

The Fëanorian broke the silence. “Yes,” he said. “You are, of course, right about Father. But,” he continued, crossing his arms, “my uncles are hardly dreary. Or oppressive.”

“No?” Melkor asked. “I take it you have not heard what Nolofinwe is planning now?”

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Endless beta thanks are due to Eveiya, Dilly, and especially Zopyrus! I hope your sufferings were not too unbearable.  
> 1\. This story took me a shockingly long time to write. I started it in the very first week of the tumblr Silm read-along, after reading the following description of Melkor:  
>  _Melkor was jealous of [Aulë], for [he] was most like himself in thought and in powers; and there was long strife between them, in which Melkor ever marred or undid the works of Aulë, and Aulë grew weary in repairing the tumults and disorders of Melkor. Both, also, desired to make things of their own that should be new and unthought of by others, and delighted in the praise of their skill. But Aulë remained faithful to Eru and submitted all that he did to his will; and he did not envy the works of others, but sought and gave counsel. Whereas Melkor spent his spirit in envy and hate, until at last he could make nothing save mockery of the thought of others, and all their works he destroyed if he could._  
>  This passage led me to imagine Melkor as a parodist, but I had long imagined him as a troll without a firm agenda (beyond, well, trolling), mostly because in Morgoth's Ring we are told that:  
>  _Morgoth had no ‘plan’: unless destruction and reduction to nil of a world in which he had only a share can be called a ‘plan’._  
>  2\. The bit about Fëanor slamming the door in Melkor's face is canonical: during his exile in Formenos, _Fëanor saw through [Melkor's] fair words, though, and slammed the door in his face._ Of course, it is a far more dramatic moment there than in my ficlet, but then, deflating grand, dramatic moments with absurdity has been my hobby since about 2004.  
>  3\. It needs to be said: like Maglor, I take "creation" far too seriously (even if I am, tragically, a parodist) and so I will always, always welcome concrit. Or any writing-themed discussion, really.


End file.
